


The Witcher 3 oneshots

by tissaias_piglet



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Lesbian Sex, The Witcher 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tissaias_piglet/pseuds/tissaias_piglet
Summary: A whole mess of f/f oneshots relating to the Witcher 3 game, mostly involving our gorgeous Lodge ladies, especially Philippa because she is my love.Each chapter is a different oneshot, and they all exist separately, so the events in one may contradict those in another. All are under 1000 words. Chapter titles reflect the pairings, and chapter notes will explain more about each one.Obviously there's massive spoilers for the game!
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Cerys an Craite, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Triss Merigold, Philippa Eilhart/Margarita Laux-Antille, Philippa Eilhart/Margarita Laux-Antille/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Philippa Eilhart/Triss Merigold, Sheala de Tancarville/Margarita Laux-Antille, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Kudos: 39





	1. Philippa/Rita/Ciri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philippa and Rita suspect that Ciri is not going to accept their proposal to join the Lodge, so they have a backup plan to convince her.
> 
> Contains: lesbian sex.

Ciri is on her guard the moment she enters the room. She’s been in there already, of course, tending to Rita, but this is different. This is an interrogation. Rita – out of bed and looking healthier than she has in days – is watching her intently, and Philippa is...well, she supposes Philippa is watching her too. It seems rude and tactless to ask the owl sorceress whether or not she can actually see, like asking a beggar why he has no money. Ciri just assumes that she can; it’s safer that way. Certainly the way Philippa follows her movements suggests she has at least some vision, but it would be just like her to maintain the illusion so no one considers her weak or vulnerable.

Never one to waste time, Philippa approaches Ciri, arms folded. “The Lodge once had great plans for you. Important plans. Surely you remember?” she asks, but it’s not really a question. None of them have forgotten, particularly not Ciri. She’s older now, she can make her own decisions, yet when she stands in front of Philippa, she feels the same way she did then. She wants to say yes, she wants approval, but this time it’s something more than that, or perhaps just something she couldn’t put a name to last time. Philippa leans closer to brush a stray hair back from Ciri’s face. It’s a calculated move, and the soft brush of her fingers has the desired effect. Ciri feels her legs, and her resolve, weaken. “We intend to revive the Lodge,” Philippa states plainly, “and we renew our offer – you must join us.”

Vaguely, Ciri is aware that if Philippa could see such a small hair in front of her face that she definitely has almost all of her vision back. But she’s not thinking of that, not really. She’s thinking about Philippa’s slender fingers inside her, full lips on her throat, at her breast, lower... She backs up a little, wishing Philippa would take the initiative and pin her to the wall. Perhaps if she refuses, Philippa will seduce her into saying yes.

“Cirilla, are you listening?” Philippa snaps. “Don’t waste my time. What is your decision? Will you join us?”

Soft fingers stroke lightly over the back of her neck, and warm breath caresses her shoulder. “Philippa, give the girl a minute to think,” Rita chides, moving closer so her heavy breasts press against Ciri’s back. “Take all the time you need, sweet one,” she murmurs.

It was intended just for Ciri to hear, but perhaps losing her sight has sharpened Philippa’s hearing. She comes closer, snaking her hand between Ciri’s legs and pressing against her with two fingers. “I could convince you, I don’t think it would be hard,” Philippa purrs, her voice heavy with enough seductive promise to make Ciri squirm. “It’s been a long time since you felt someone else’s touch, hasn’t it?”

Ciri presses her lips together, not wanting to play her hand too soon. She wonders how Philippa knows that for months she’s been dreaming of feeling anything other than her own touch.

_You want it, don’t you, little bird? Tell me._

_I do. I want both of you. Please?_

Philippa hastily unbuttons Ciri’s breeches, reaching beneath her underclothes, which are already damp, and tracing her fingertips over wet, swollen folds. Ciri’s knees go weak, and she moans out Philippa’s name, feeling Rita’s strong, slender arms come around her waist to hold her up.

“There, I’ve got you,” Rita croons into her ear, “now let us take care of you.” Keeping one arm around Ciri’s waist, she moves the other hand up, finding Ciri’s hardening nipples and pinching them roughly enough to be felt through layers of clothing. It does nothing to help Ciri keep standing, especially when Philippa slides two fingers inside her and begins moving them firmly, curling them so she can press in the perfect place to make Ciri shudder and grind down on her.

Rita mouths wetly at her neck, interspersing damp kisses with gentle nips, and Philippa moves closer, Ciri trapped pleasurably between them as Philippa’s talented fingers find her clit. “What’s your answer, Cirilla?” Philippa asks, smirking, knowing Ciri can barely form the words, “will you join the Lodge? If you say no, or you don’t answer, I’ll leave you on the edge. If you don’t believe that I will, ask Rita.”

Ciri throws her head back against Rita’s shoulder, desperately trying to move against Philippa’s fingers. “Oh fuck,” she gasps out, “yes, Philippa!” She realises too late what she’s said. It was meant to be encouragement to make her come, not an acceptance of her offer, but as Philippa pushes another finger inside her and Rita begins to stroke her clit softly, she can’t find it in herself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally stole the idea of Philippa calling Ciri 'little bird' from 'Smut Prompt Fills' by Night_Writer. I love it!


	2. Sheala/Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Deireadh prison, Rita is broken and finding it hard to keep going. Sheala tries to explain to her why she should.
> 
> Contains: angst (seriously this entire fic is just fucking angst), abuse/injury detail, trauma, allusions to torture, euthanasia/mercy killing.

Sheala’s legs were cold, she could barely feel Rita’s head resting on her thigh. Tears ran down Rita’s face, cleaning a path through the dirt and dried blood, and her breathing was shallow and infrequent. Sheala reached out, stroking the other woman’s matted hair, lightly so as not to get her fingers caught in the knots. She’d always envied Rita’s hair. “You’re okay, Rita,” she murmured, “you’re okay, I’m right here.”

“I can’t,” Rita whispered, voice catching in her dry throat. How long was it since they’d been given water? “I can’t any more. Please Sheala, help me?” A sob wracked her frail body, and Sheala rubbed her back soothingly, trying not to notice the jut of Rita’s shoulder blades, paper-thin skin stretched across them. She’d always envied Rita’s curves too – her own body thin and pale from hiding away doing research constantly, never eating, sleeping, or going outside enough – but now they were also gone. Her dress hung from her shapelessly, where once it had clung to her slender waist and full hips, her heavy chest. Even Philippa’s strident beauty was no match for Rita’s.

And beautiful she still was, for nothing could ever truly take that from her, even as she lay on the filthy prison floor and begged Sheala to kill her.

Sheala couldn’t help the animalistic howl of pain and misery which tore from her, and although Rita was almost too weak to move, she still managed to raise her head and look up worriedly. “You have to hold on, Rita. Just one more day, I promise,” Sheala begged, tears brimming in her eyes and quickly spilling over her lashes to stream down her face. “I know I’ve said it to you before, but this time I-” She stopped short of telling Rita that this time she meant it. She meant it every time, but that was because she was selfish, and couldn’t bear to do what Rita asked her to, especially when it would mean she was left alone in that hellish place. Now she had a real reason.

“Close your eyes, Rita,” she murmured, running her fingers over the other woman’s forehead, across her cheeks, tracing the line of her jaw and the shape of her lips, trying to commit her to memory. “It’s going to be okay, we’re going to get out of here. I saw it – Geralt of Rivia killing the prison guards, and then...” Her voice shuddered, dying in her throat, but Sheala forced herself to carry on. “I saw Yennefer leading you away into a portal. You’re going to be okay, Rita, you have to believe me. Just hold on.”

Sheala could see what it cost Rita to agree. She gripped the torn, stained fabric of Sheala’s dress as though desperately trying to draw strength from somewhere, her face contorted in unimaginable pain as she ground out the words. “Okay. I’ll stay.” The moment she said it, she seemed to fold in on herself, crying harder than Sheala had ever seen her, as though she’d signed her own death warrant rather than agreed to hold onto life for another day. “Tell me more?” she begged through sobs, her tears soaking into Sheala’s dress and making a dark patch. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, ignoring her wet eyes.

Each word Sheala spoke felt like a knife twisting in her stomach. “I saw us sitting in a field together somewhere. It was calm and quiet, the air was filled with birdsong and it was warm, so warm. We had a basket of food, and a bottle of wine. Triss was there, and Philippa.” Her voice caught on the final words, but she forced them out, thinking only about caring for Rita, giving her something to cling to, no matter how fragile. If Rita realised that Sheala was lying, she didn’t comment on it, and after a few minutes, she fell into the kind of haunted, restless sleep which they were both so used to. It was only then that Sheala allowed herself to cry, really cry, covering her mouth with her hand as she sobbed so hard she was sure it would wake Rita. The dream unfolded in her head, as it had done countless times since she woke up, Sheala watching from a distance, like a spectator.

_Yennefer holding Rita tightly around the waist as they stepped into a portal. Geralt drawing his sword, standing before Sheala. The sound of the blade slicing the air, a brief, white-hot pain, then nothing. Silence. Darkness._

Sheala stroked Rita’s hair again, hoping she could feel it in whatever place she inhabited in her dreams. She hoped it was better than here. “Live, my love. For me. Please, live,” she murmured, running her fingertips over Rita’s lips again.


	3. Philippa/Triss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triss tries to take care of Philippa after she's been rescued. Philippa, of course, insists she doesn't need help.
> 
> Contains: hopefully nothing that should need to be tagged.

“Don’t touch me,” Philippa snapped, “I’m not incapable, I can walk through a portal unaided.” Still, she made no attempt to shrug off Triss’ arm as they moved towards the portal together, but Triss could feel the tension in her body. All things considered, it was hardly a surprise. She didn’t like to mention that regardless of whether or not Philippa was incapable, she still needed to know where the portal was, and without her sight, that was difficult.

As usual, travelling through the portal gave the feeling of being crushed, and the moment their feet touched the floor in Triss’ room at the Chameleon, Philippa stumbled forward, holding her stomach. “Oh gods,” she mumbled, covering her mouth, and Triss helped her towards a chair, supporting her as she sat down. Philippa heaved a deep breath, then another, clearly trying to settle her stomach. “Go away,” she said, briefly removing her hand from her mouth, “I mean it, Triss. This is embarrassing enough already, I don’t need to have my moment of weakness witnessed by anyone.” A small whimper escaped with her words. “Oh gods,” she murmured again, shaking slightly.

Triss removed the hand which had, until now, been resting on Philippa’s shoulder. “I’m going to stroke your hair, Philippa,” she said slowly, “I’m not telling you so that you can get angry at me, I just don’t want to startle you.” Before the other sorceress could respond, Triss let her fingers brush lightly over her hair, stroking down until she reached the place where it began to twist into Philippa’s trademark braids, before starting at the top of her head again. It was not exactly the most pleasant experience; trapped in owl form, Philippa had been unable to bathe for months, and the sewer water she’d encountered while trying to escape from Dijkstra and Geralt hardly counted. Still, Triss wanted to comfort her, and although Philippa hadn’t said a word, she also hadn’t flung Triss away from her with magic, so that was positive.

“I should like to bathe,” Philippa announced, after a minute or two – or perhaps it was longer, Triss had lost herself in the feeling of petting her hair a little – of silence. “I don’t need to see your face to know your thoughts about the dirt and grease in my hair.” Triss didn’t want to leave, but she quietly suspected it was Philippa’s way of getting rid of her for a few minutes. And if the other sorceress was still feeling nauseous, she didn’t begrudge her the chance to deal with it in private.

Ten minutes later, Philippa was removing her filthy clothing and Triss was studiously looking in another direction. She’d seen Philippa naked countless times before, of course, but staring hungrily at a woman who was about to rail her into next week, and watching an injured woman stripping before a bath, were two very different things, even if it was the same woman.

There was a strange noise, like a blunt object hitting a piece of wood, and she heard Philippa curse. “Triss, in case it wasn’t obvious, I shall need your help getting into the bath,” Philippa said, her tone regal, her statement sounding like a command, which of course it was. Triss turned around, quickly realising that Philippa, in an attempt to be independent and self-sufficient, had tried to step into the tub herself, only to misjudge where it was and stub her toe against it, which was the noise she’d heard.

Triss scrambled to her feet and moved to Philippa’s side. “I’m going to place your hand on my shoulder,” she said, pausing for a few seconds for her words to be understood, then doing as she’d described. “At least you’ve found the tub already,” she continued, with a snorted laugh, not because she found it funny that Philippa couldn’t see, but because it was easier to endure Philippa’s anger for making jokes than for making her feel incapable.

“Yes,” Philippa said drily, not a trace of humour in her voice, but since she didn’t comment further, Triss considered her strategy to have been noted and approved. She raised one foot when Triss told her to, then the other, stepping into the tub carefully and settling herself down. “You may look if you wish to, you know I’m not shy,” she said off-handedly as she began to wash herself.

Triss’ answer surprised even herself. “What I want to do is kiss you, and I intend to do so just as soon as you’re clean and dry and comfortable. I hope you don’t have plans for this evening, because I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.” The moment the words left her mouth, her cheeks flushed hotly, and she wanted to take them back.

Philippa didn’t turn to look at her, and Triss felt her heartbeat in her throat. What was she thinking, telling an injured, possibly traumatised woman that she wanted to take her to bed just two hours after she’d been rescued? Her mind was so busy screaming at her that she almost missed Philippa’s answer.

“That sounds like heaven. Make me forget, Triss.”


	4. Ciri/Triss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Triss have a convenient arrangement. Sex, no strings, no feelings. And thinking about the person they *actually* want is encouraged, if not expected. It's no secret who Triss wants, but Ciri? We're about to find out...
> 
> Contains: lesbian sex, roleplay, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“Are you sure?” Triss asked, panting, barely able to keep herself from kissing Ciri long enough to get an answer. She’d missed what the younger woman’s fingers and tongue could do. She’d missed Ciri herself too, desperately, but her mind wasn’t on that at the moment. The moment they’d been able to escape upstairs, Ciri had pinned Triss to the wall, kissing her frantically, hands roving over every inch of each other. It felt good, so good, to be close again.

Ciri nipped her way up Triss’ throat, sucked on her lower lip, and moaned, “yes.” It was all the permission Triss needed. She dug her fingers into Ciri’s ashen hair, held her close, and kissed her with burning passion. The kiss seemed to last forever, and when they finally broke apart, Ciri’s cheeks were flushed. Triss thought it was from the fervour of her kiss, until the younger woman dipped her head and asked, “you know that thing where you say someone else’s name? Is it okay if I do that too?”

Triss had never heard Ciri so shy. “Of course, dearest love,” she murmured soothingly, sensing that this was to be Ciri’s confession, and that she would get the full story afterwards. “Come to bed now.” She thought the mood had softened, but the second they fell into bed, naked, Ciri was pinning her down, fingers moving insistently between her legs. Triss was always quickest to get wet, and that, combined with Ciri’s dominant nature, meant she always got to come first.

Ciri slid her fingertip carelessly over Triss’ clit, making her tremble, before teasing her folds, grazing gently with her nails in the exact way which always made Triss fall apart. “Open up for me,” she purred, toying with Triss’ juices to get her fingers wet, then pushing them inside her.

Her first thrust was rough, Triss arching on the bed, biting her lip to keep herself quiet; she didn’t usually give in so soon. The second thrust was harder still, and she couldn’t help it, really couldn’t. “Philippa!” Triss moaned, bringing her hands up to play with her own breasts, teasing and pinching her nipples the way she loved to be touched.

“That’s it, good girl,” Ciri praised, and gods, Triss never knew how Ciri managed to get herself to sound like Philippa, but when she was dazed with lust, it was enough. She curled her fingers, and Triss cried out, on the edge already. It never took her long to come, but after being untouched for so long, she was even more needy than usual. It would have been embarrassing with anyone else, but she and Ciri had done this enough times for there to be no secrets or awkwardness between them.

Triss clutched the sheets, closing her eyes to better picture what she needed. “Philippa, please, gods, Philippa,” she begged, knowing the owl sorceress herself would never permit such shameful begging. Ciri thrust hard and deep inside her, jamming her thumb against Triss’ clit, and Triss came with a strangled moan of Philippa’s name. She was not usually so quiet, but she was also not usually only a few rooms away from the object of her lust.

Quick to come but also quick to recover, Triss quickly switched their positions, burying her face in Ciri’s cunt. She lapped firmly, taking the taste of Ciri’s juices into her mouth, and when she glanced up, she saw Ciri had her arm slung across her face, muffling her sounds of pleasure. Triss was seized with a sudden, all-encompassing need to know who she was thinking of. Knowing that the younger woman preferred to cling to something when she was getting pounded, Triss slid three fingers inside her, beginning to thrust hard. True to form, Ciri grabbed the headboard behind her with one hand, but still covered her mouth with the other.

Triss smirked. She knew Ciri couldn’t come without having her clit touched, and she had no intention of giving her what she needed. After just another minute, Ciri’s thighs began to tremble, as they always did when she was close, and she shoved her hand down between her legs, rubbing herself hard as Triss kept fucking into her with her fingers.

“Cerys!” Ciri gasped suddenly, “oh, love!” Triss didn’t have time to think about who Cerys could possibly be – it certainly wasn’t a name she recognised – because Ciri began to shake, her movements becoming irregular, a sure sign she was on the edge. “Ah, fuck! _Cerys_!” she sobbed, shoving herself wildly onto Triss’ invading fingers, soaking them as she came.

As Ciri recovered, Triss sucked her fingers clean and waited for a cue as to what would happen next. It came a moment later, when Ciri reached out to her, encouraging her closer, and then in an uncharacteristically vulnerable gesture, she buried herself in Triss’ embrace. “So, _Cerys_ , hmm?” Triss teased, kissing the top of Ciri’s head. “And who might that lucky lady be?”

The answer, when it came, was so surprising that she had to ask Ciri to repeat herself. “The future queen of Skellige,” Ciri said again, “Cerys an Craite is the future queen of Skellige.” She ran her fingers absently up and down Triss’ side, perhaps distracting herself from how vulnerable she felt. Like Geralt, and Yennefer, and almost all of the sorceresses she knew, in fact almost everyone in her life, Ciri never liked to admit to having feelings, much less talking about them in depth. But she always made an exception for Triss, even if it took her a while and a lot of coaxing.

Triss pulled her closer still, dropping another kiss into her hair. “Oh, we definitely have some talking to do, little Ciri, so cuddle in,” she murmured, “I think this might take a while...”


	5. Cerys/Ciri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen Cerys an Craite of Skellige awakes in the middle of the night to the feeling of being watched.
> 
> Contains: hopefully nothing that should need to be tagged.

Queen Cerys an Craite of Skellige awoke with the feeling that she was being watched. It was nonsense, of course, because for starters she could neither see nor hear anything amiss, and the queen was someone who placed a lot of faith in her instincts. Secondly, every night without fail, Skellige’s very best guards were stationed outside her chambers from the moment she retired to the moment she left them in the morning, which made it impossible for anyone to enter. The queen believed in many things, but an enemy being able to disguise themselves so thoroughly that they became transparent was not one of them. Thirdly, there were archers and swordsmen positioned on the battlements morning, noon, and night, to prevent anyone attempting to gain access to her chambers through a window.

Still, rationality couldn’t explain the feeling of being watched. Or that the air felt different somehow.

“I know ye’re there,” she said into the darkness, feeling foolish but not afraid. After all, any ruler worth their salt slept with half a dozen weapons within arm’s reach, and could successfully defend themselves in pitch darkness with any one of them. “What have ye come for?” She slipped her hand beneath the pillow, feeling for her dagger, and found nothing. Not to fear, perhaps she’d simply knocked it off the bed in the night. When she reached for the sword mounted above the headboard and found it gone, a sliver of cold fear pierced her heart.

Still, she was a queen, and she had no intention of showing it. “Ye’ve taken my weapons, I see. More fool you for thinking that’ll stop me. Ye think I grew up with a brother like Hjalmar and never learned to defend myself with my fists?” She would only need to block an attack for a few seconds, long enough to yell for the guards, and she was quite confident that she could do that. “What the fuck are ye waiting for, ye bloody coward? Ragh nar Roog?” she taunted.

The queen expected a heavy blow to the head, perhaps a short, radiating pain as her heart was pierced, at the very least an explanation about some supposed slight against one of Skellige’s other clans. Instead, there was a flash of blue-green light, blindingly bright in the dark room, and a disturbance of air as something moved towards her at speed. A rough hand closed around her throat, and the queen gasped. She’d only ever allowed one person to do that to her, and that person was-

“Hello, Cerys.”

“ _No_ ,” the word, gasped, devastated, left her mouth before she could stop it, “it can’t be.” She reached out tentatively, wanting to touch the face, see if it matched the voice she thought she’d never hear again, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow herself to be fooled like this. “Light a damn candle, would ye?” she snapped, trying desperately to master her emotions. Yet when the hand fell away from her throat and a candle flickered to life beside her, she still wouldn’t allow herself to believe.

The woman beside her looked, and spoke, and felt, like Ciri. But Ciri was _dead_. The queen wouldn’t allow herself to believe anything else, for although hope was a powerful and necessary thing in times of darkness, it could also be stupid and irrational, and hoping that a dead woman had come back to life and appeared in her chambers was certainly both of those things. Not to mention dangerous.

“Ye aren’t going to fool me,” she said, keeping her voice calm and steady even though her mind was in turmoil. Shit, the woman even had Ciri’s scent. The few, brief times they’d met since they became adults, Ciri had always smelled the same – like grass, and metal, and whatever fragranced oils she’d bathed with the last time she’d slept somewhere with a bath tub, which never quite managed to cover up the tang of sweat. Memories the queen had tried to suppress suddenly broke forth, flooding her mind, and she growled in anger. “Ciri is dead, now hurry up and kill me, or fuck off back to wherever ye came from, d’ye hear?”

She’d heard of creatures which could turn themselves into another person with such accuracy that even their loved ones would be fooled. That had to be the answer. And yet Ciri’s face fell, as though finally realising she couldn’t expect a warm welcome from the queen. Well, what sort of queen would she be if she let herself get killed by some shape-changing monster which had crept into her room, disguised as someone she’d loved?

She careered wildly between certainty and doubt, willing herself to make a decision, but none came. “Tell me something only the real Ciri would know,” she said sharply, suddenly deciding on a course of action. She had no idea whether taking on someone’s appearance also offered access to their memories, but it was the best strategy she could think of.

Ciri leaned down, murmuring in her ear. The intimately familiar brush of Ciri’s lips against her ear, the low hum of Ciri’s voice, the inescapable, dizzying feeling she got whenever Ciri was close to her... Cerys couldn’t deny it any more. She didn’t want to. She wanted to believe, even just for a moment, that Ciri was alive.

“Zireael?” she asked, her voice wavering, “is this really happening?” She cupped Ciri’s face, running her thumb over the scar beneath her eye. “Is this a dream?”

Cupping the queen’s face with battle-scarred hands, Ciri looked deeply into her love’s eyes. She’d been watching her for weeks, always hidden out of sight behind walls or trees, trying to convince herself that looking was enough. But it wasn’t. She needed to feel Cerys in her arms again. “It’s not a dream, my Sparrowhawk,” she murmured, wondering whether or not she had permission to kiss the queen’s full lips, “I came back for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Skelligan belief, Ragh nar Roog is the final battle between good and evil, which precedes the end of the world.


	6. Triss/Yennefer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before the battle at Kaer Morhen, Yennefer and Triss both need some comfort.
> 
> Contains: brief and not too graphic description of the Battle of Sodden, nightmares, slight PTSD.

Triss was sure Kaer Morhen was colder than she remembered it. And possibly also that the corridors were reconfiguring themselves somehow, letting her follow a familiar route only to spit her out at completely the wrong destination. She pushed open a door, noting with no great surprise that it was not the room she wanted, and was about to leave again when she realised that the shadow in the darkest corner was not some forgotten training mannequin or suit of armour, but a person. A very familiar person.

“Yenna, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise-” Triss stammered, “the corridors- I just-” Yennefer turned to face her, stepping into the only faint patch of light in the room, sniffed, and wiped at her cheeks. Triss’ heart plummeted off the battlements and into the deep ravine 300ft below Kaer Morhen. “Ciri?” she gasped out before she could stop herself, “did something happen?”

Yennefer sighed, and pushed her hair back from her face. The amount Ciri and Triss adored each other made things very difficult. “Nothing’s happened,” she said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. “As unhappy as I am with you, hiding things right now could endanger us all.” Even in the weak light, it was easy to see how deathly pale she was, her face still damp with tears.

Triss stepped forward, knowing Yennefer would probably shrug her away, but wanting to try anyway. Up close she could see that although the other sorceress’ expression was calm, her eyes were tortured. “You need to sleep, Yenna,” she said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You look exhausted.”

The silence held for two, three, four minutes… Until Yennefer allowed Triss to cup her elbow, guiding her out of the room and down the corridor to what – thankfully – turned out to be a room with a serviceable bed. Triss wasn’t sure what was behind Yennefer’s remarkably compliant attitude, but she didn’t want to question it. It was better for Ciri if they were all well-rested. Perhaps Yennefer found it easier to take orders from someone she didn’t have to pretend to like and had no issue getting angry with.

In the absence of a dressing screen, Triss turned away while Yennefer removed her clothes. “If you so much as look at Geralt while I’m asleep, they’ll be scraping bits of you off the walls of Kaer Morhen for the next six years,” Yennefer said bluntly as she climbed into the bed in just her underclothes. “Oh sweet gods, this bed is perishingly cold.”

“Yenna, you misunderstood. We’re both going to rest, okay?” Yennefer raised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak, although her expression suggested she might consider smothering Triss with a cushion in the night. Regardless, Triss quickly removed her own clothing and crawled into bed. She’d known Yennefer too long to worry about modesty; all she cared to hide was beneath her undershirt, which she never removed in front of anyone anyway. “I know you don’t believe me, and I understand, but my mind isn’t on anything except saving Ciri right now. Even if you don’t think I care for you or Geralt, you know I care for Ciri.”

Yennefer’s frown did nothing to suggest she believed Triss, and her expression, if possible, became even more mutinous.

Triss realised her mistake immediately, and her heart skipped uncomfortably. “Even if Ciri wasn’t in danger, I wouldn’t do anything either,” she amended hastily, knowing it was already too late. “Please don’t give me that look when I’m talking, you know I get all flustered and forget my words. It makes me want to shrivel up and die.”

Yennefer looked as though she was about to say that was preferable, but instead she pulled the covers up beneath her chin and closed her eyes. “Goodnight Triss,” she said shortly. Yennefer’s thick, soft hair tickled Triss’ cheek, smelling of lilac and gooseberries as always. Triss moved closer for warmth, their bare thighs brushing, and Yennefer didn’t move away.

It felt like only moments after Triss had closed her eyes that she was shaken roughly awake. The dream was still pressing heavily on her mind, and the air seemed to taste of ash and death. Yennefer was saying her name. The sheets beneath her were damp. But she was still lost on the battlefields of Sodden.

_Philippa and Sabrina,_ _dirty and bloodied and weak, but fighting._ _Yennefer, so badly wounded. So many bodies._ _I’m_ _too_ _fragile and pathetic_ _to fight like this,_ _I’m scared_ _. Fire. Oh, gods, no. Searing pain. Please_ _don’t_ _let me die, please,_ _I need to find-_

“Triss? Triss, by the gods, stop struggling!” Yennefer growled, and as Triss slowly began to regain an awareness of her own body, she realised Yennefer was trying to embrace her and she was fighting her off. She forced herself to relax, and when she did, the tears came. “Hush Triss,” Yennefer murmured, trying to soften her voice, “you’re at Kaer Morhen, you’re safe.”

Triss sniffed hard. Her nose was running and she had nothing to wipe it with. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I was dreaming of Sodden. It only ever happens when I’m really frightened about something; it’s been so long I didn’t even consider that it could happen tonight.” She wanted to cling to Yennefer, but she wasn’t sure her closeness would be welcomed.

And yet, Yennefer was still embracing her. “I know. You...kept saying ‘Yennefer, I need to find Yennefer, she’s hurt’.” Yennefer’s chest shuddered with a sob. “That’s what you’re scared of, in the dream? Something happening to me?” Her voice was shaking, elegant nails leaving half-moons in Triss’ pale skin as she held her so tightly it bordered on painful. Triss nodded, failing to find the strength, or the right words, to speak. Yennefer’s lips were trembling as she pressed a kiss to Triss’ forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed. Her words didn’t fix everything, but maybe it was a start.


	7. Yennefer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer is awoken in the middle of a dirty dream, but who's she been thinking about? (I can't title this chapter properly or it'll give that away)
> 
> Contains: masturbation, voyeurism, lesbian sex.

Yennefer moaned quietly in frustration as she slowly came awake, realising she’d been woken before the end of a very erotic dream. She refused to open her eyes, not wanting the delicious images to fade, or to have to admit to herself who she’d been dreaming of.

The air in the room was chill, lightly teasing over her bare breasts and making her shiver in pleasure. Her nipples tightened, and she brought a hand up to her chest, lightly pinching one, then the other, between her fingertips. _Oh gods_. She was sensitive, much more sensitive than usual, and even that touch had her almost writhing on the bed.

A soft gasp escaped her lips, her hips beginning to move of their own accord, seeking a touch or at least something to move against to increase the pressure. She palmed her breast, a little more roughly than she was used to, and it made her shudder in pleasure. Her willpower to tease herself was gone almost before she’d started; the wetness between her legs was becoming uncomfortable, and she needed more than just touching her breasts. _Mmmm, feels so good_! She dug a hand into her own hair, arching on the bed as she roughly massaged her other breast, her stiff nipple pressing insistently against her palm.

Yennefer had never been a patient person, and she hated being made to wait during sex more than anything else. She certainly didn’t plan on making herself wait for her own touch. Slick wetness met her fingers instantly when she slipped them between her legs, and she cupped herself, moving against her hand and biting her lip. _Don’t be a fucking tease_. She didn’t need to acknowledge who she was thinking of, it was enough that she was.

Gentle shudders ran through her as she brushed lightly over her clit, moving quickly lower in favour of slipping two fingers inside herself. She couldn’t come from it, but neither could she come without it. _Ugh, fuck_! She moved slowly at first, building up a rhythm which took her higher and higher, the only sounds in the room her gasping breaths and the unmistakable, obscene sound of her fingers thrusting into her juices. She wasn’t going to last long; she’d been close before she even awoke, and her own touch was getting her to the very edge more skilfully than anyone else ever could.

But it was the first time she’d allowed herself to indulge in this particular fantasy, and she tried not to think about the fact that her thoughts had to take some of the credit for her current state. _So close, so close, oh gods_. She heard the telltale whip-crack of a portal opening in her room, but she couldn’t bring herself to care who might be there. After all, it wasn’t like she’d never fantasised about being watched before.

She curled her fingers inside herself, reaching insistently for the place which was going to make her dissolve. A strangled noise escaped her mouth as she found it, and she brushed firmly over it, mewling in an embarrassingly desperate way. _I’m close, I’m close, please, oh please, oh fuck_!

The begging was new; Yennefer never allowed herself to beg anyone to make her come, knowing she could quite easily do it herself at any time, but it seemed her new fantasy demanded it. She brought her other hand down between her legs, sliding the tip of her finger over her clit, and whining loudly. She was on the very edge, her touches and those thoughts undoing her completely. A low groan began in her throat, and she thrust harder, faster, inside herself, fingertips grazing roughly over that one, perfect spot, her hips moving wildly, two fingers on her clit now. _Gods, oh, fuck_!

She lost all rational thought, her body convulsing as her orgasm ripped through her, an almost tortured whine escaping her parted lips. A bead of sweat slid down her throat as she panted, clinging to the bedsheets with wet, sticky fingers as she came down from her high.

It took her a minute to remember that there was someone else in the room with her, and reluctantly she half opened one eye. Philippa stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, a smug smile hitching up the corners of her mouth. “I would advise guarding your thoughts while pleasuring yourself, Yennefer,” she smirked, “unless you wanted me to know what you were thinking about me. I certainly can’t deny I enjoyed the show.”

“Are you going to touch me, or do I have to do it myself?” Yennefer asked before she even realised what she was saying, because Philippa’s hungry expression was making her ache again. As much as she resented it, she’d always been quietly curious as to whether the rumours about Philippa’s skill in bed were true or whether she’d started them herself. It was impossible to deny that Philippa was attractive, and the idea of her full lips kissing teasingly up Yennefer’s thigh was enough to make her squirm. At least this way she didn’t have to humiliate herself by approaching Philippa and asking her to bed.

Philippa knelt between her legs, pressing hot kisses in a slow trail down from her stomach. “It makes sense that you’d want to be fucked well at least once in your life, in case we all die,” Philippa commented with a self-satisfied laugh, and sucked Yennefer’s clit into her mouth before she could respond. She wasn’t wrong though.


	8. Philippa/Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rita doesn't want to be alone the first night after she's rescued from Deireadh prison, but Philippa is too selfish and self-serving to take care of her, isn't she?
> 
> Contains: angst (seriously this entire fic is just fucking angst), slight PTSD.

> Hold me close, stay tonight, don’t let go
> 
> Cause this world is full of goodbyes
> 
> Heal my heart one more time, don’t let go
> 
> Cause this world is full of goodbyes

This World is Full of Goodbyes – Stine Grove

* * *

Philippa wished she’d paid more attention every time Triss had tried to take care of her. She knew as much about being kind as Tissaia de Vries, and that was not a compliment. So far, she’d been able to focus her attention on cleaning the wounds on Rita’s face, helping her to bathe, towelling her hair dry, and finding her clean clothes to wear. She’d even, from somewhere, dredged up the patience to help Rita eat a bowl of soup.

And yet, she couldn’t escape the truth of the situation. Her talent for unflinching self-analysis sometimes provided her with insights she didn’t want but couldn’t avoid, and this was one of these times. She was happy that Rita was alive, of course, but undoubtedly the only reasons she was taking care of the other sorceress was a sense of possessiveness, and a fervent desire to begin rekindling plans for the Lodge as soon as possible. It was not, as it would be for Yennefer, about ensuring Rita was strong enough to fight the Wild Hunt and save Ciri. And it was not, as it would be for Triss, a result of that infuriating fucking compassion and need to care for others. No, her motivation was purely selfish, as always.

It was not often Philippa was forced to confront the fact she was a terrible person.

Rita had been captured while trying to lead her students to safety. Triss, with every witch hunter in the city looking for her, had still been organising escapes to Kovir for mages.

What had Philippa done? Certainly nothing to help anyone other than herself.

A soft snuffling noise drew her attention, and she turned to find Rita crying again. It happened so often that the sorceress seemed not even to notice. She would be talking, and suddenly tears would be washing down her cheeks. Philippa was no less uncomfortable for the fact that it had been happening almost constantly.

“Rita...” she began, but when Rita turned wet, hopeful eyes on her, she couldn’t think of a single reassuring thing to say. Philippa was used to women seeking her out, baring their sorrow to her, and letting her fuck it out of their minds. Sometimes once was enough, sometimes it took days. That was Philippa’s true – and perhaps only real – skill. But that was not what Rita needed, and the tide of uselessness which rose up inside her shocked her with its force. As they so often did, her emotions curdled into anger. Pushing people away, it seemed, was the only way she could protect her surprisingly fragile heart.

“You should sleep,” Philippa said as gently as she could, and even then her words still came out sounding like irritation. Gods, she wasn’t capable of doing this. Why couldn’t she have abandoned her pride for one minute and asked Triss or Yennefer to help? Even fucking _Geralt_ would be more use to Rita than she was being.

Meekly, Rita climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. She closed her eyes obediently, but opened them again, panic flashing through her gaze, when she heard Philippa’s footsteps moving towards the door. “Where- where are you going?” she asked, trying and failing not to look frightened. Tears welled up in her eyes, making them look bigger than Philippa had ever seen them, glassy with fear. “Philippa please don’t?” she whispered shakily, tears brimming over and running down the sides of her face, clinging to the covers with nails bitten down to the quick.

Rita’s quiet sob tugged at her heart with a pain Philippa didn’t realise she was capable of feeling, and she let her hand fall from the doorknob. She couldn’t leave. She was already useless, but leaving Rita alone to face the nightmares was unacceptably cold even for her. Picking up an extra blanket from a box in the corner of the room, she climbed onto the bed and slipped beneath the covers. Rita immediately pushed herself into a sitting position and moved closer, gratefully accepting both the blanket Philippa wrapped around her, and her embrace.

“Please stay tonight. Just hold me close and don’t let go?” Rita whispered, moving as close as she could, until she could hear Philippa’s heartbeat. “I don’t want you to leave, this world is full of goodbyes.” As another, louder, sob escaped her, she fisted a handful of Philippa’s dress and clung to her.

Rita’s pain seemed to be leeching into Philippa’s skin, and the longer she heard and felt the other sorceress crying, the more it seemed to build up inside her too. She pressed her lips to the top of Rita’s head, kissing her firmly, and hoped that she couldn’t feel the tears falling into her hair. “Don’t let go,” she echoed, the words spilling forth before she could stop them, willing Rita not to hear her. Perhaps this was what she’d needed, all this time. A chance to really feel pain, the kind of sharp, unstoppable pain she couldn’t avoid or escape from.

“Heal my heart,” she murmured, without knowing whether she was begging Rita, the gods, or herself. She was broken, that was the only answer, and she needed to be fixed. And maybe the fact she could feel Rita’s pain meant she cared more for her than she ever had for anyone else. Maybe what she needed was to truly fall apart so she could put herself together again. “Even if this world is full of goodbyes, I’m not leaving you tonight or any other night, Rita,” she breathed, holding the other sorceress close, and something in the rawness of her tone told them both that she meant it. She held tightly as Rita began to cry in earnest, but she wasn’t going to let go. Not this time. To heal both of them.


End file.
